


Smoke

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And everything says yes, and even if John hasn't, not literally, there is no way that he could have missed this, <i>this</i>, a yes of this magnitude."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kink meme prompt: "They find themselves pressed against the wall, arched upon the sofa, tangled in bed panting voiceless encouragements. It's only the next day that one of them speaks a word." and filled originally [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=115450263#t115450263%22).

When John has stopped coughing and his breathing has slowed enough for him to regain the ability to speak, the final thing he says, tipping his head back against the wall next to the open door, is: “So, do you want –”

And Sherlock doesn't say the _yes_ , because it's everywhere already, pressing hard on his eardrums, flashing in bursts of heat through his synapses, that are still flicking at high speed through the hard, fast-paced visuals of the chase they just finished, things clicking into their appropriate places in his mind palace, and most of all, right now: his brain trying to process the image of John as it's sent into his optic nerves upside-down, the world tipped, its balance lost except for John, still heaving, smelling of city and smoke and new sweat, and there is blood on John – a mingle of drops of his and Sherlock's, an angrier splash of the drug dealer's – in a thick trickle in the corner of his mouth and a bright smear leading into his collar and a spattering across his chest. And everything says yes, and even if John hasn't, literally, there is no way that he could have missed this, _this_ , a yes of this magnitude –

Sherlock all but smashes into him, hurtling himself across the arm-length of space between them, and then misses John's mouth completely, because John's eyes fly open just before Sherlock descends on him, and they're both so thrown by the sudden eye contact that John's face jerks away and Sherlock almost forgets what he's doing until his mouth bumps into the undefined spot of skin that sits just to the right of John's mouth, just above the corner. It has no name, that spot of skin, or maybe Sherlock's mind is just short-circuiting, because he can't remember it if it does have a name; his mouth opens against it and it tastes of – human, he supposes vaguely, rain, there's smoke, there's something that might be John, but more data is needed.

John makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, and Sherlock remembers what he came here to do, and immediately re-angles his head and attaches himself to John's mouth, the lips cracked under the wetness of the storm, and he drinks away the next noise, that could have been a _what_ but is now merely _mmmfff_. Sherlock hasn't done this in a while but he licks his way into John's mouth the way he's imagined it, often, past the hard resistance of teeth, and slips his tongue over the textures of hard and soft palate, and what he tastes is like what he tasted on that unnamed spot, but deeper, and there is more smoke, flowing upward from John's abused lungs, and Sherlock _tastes it_.

And John is pushing back, the noises are deep and throaty now, curling upwards like they're questions, still, as though the answer isn't clear already. John's tongue massages upward, against Sherlock's still moving across his palate, and it's even wetter and warmer than the rest of his mouth. Sherlock makes a sound he hadn't planned, his brain sparking off directions without intent that he was aware of; John responds with a deep moan that is divided between their mouths. The kiss opens, air mixes with their tongues, John moves his lips over Sherlock's with a messy intensity, and Sherlock is so focused on it he almost doesn't realise John's hands have been doing things until he hears the buttons of his shirt scattering on the floor, and only then does he feel John's rain-cooled hands on him, slipping between the now useless barrier of shirt. His head jerks back at the contact, at the thumb slipping harshly across a nipple.

“Ah, ff–” Sherlock manages, and then John is eating his voice, again, swallowing down every sound that Sherlock didn't know he could make.

There is no time to waste, it seems, it's like time is a reservoir and it's running out and they need to use it _now_ , and John feels it too because he's palming Sherlock's cock already through his trousers, hands slipping and fumbling with the zipper.

John makes a garbled sound as Sherlock pushes his hips in, trapping John's hand between them, and when John twists his wrist in the pressure between them they both moan, into the non-space between them, and then John's tongue is in Sherlock's mouth.

“ _Ah_ ,” Sherlock gasps, sound absorbed by John's mouth, when the hand is pulled away with a final delicious friction – before he can express his annoyance the hand slides over his sides and cups his arse with a firmness that is all John, that is all this moment, and John's other hand is reaching behind him, too, pulling him in. Sherlock falls forward, rests his elbows on either side of John's face against the wall, and he can feel gravity trying to separate them, to pull them apart, but it won't win, not this time, he has to – get closer, get closer –

John's breaths are small sounds in the back of his throat, and on the second try he gets the thrust just right – even through the heaviness of their only half-undone trousers between them Sherlock can feel the hard strain of John's erection against his own.

He makes a sound that is a half-hiccough, half-moan, doesn't even have time to be annoyed at that, because John is pulling his thigh between his own and he's pushing upward, thrusting, rutting, and his fingers are firm and tight on Sherlock's arse. The friction is only barely enough, but there is still heat building in his gut, mixed with a raw frustration because there doesn't even seem to be enough time to do anything else, to stop this and find a better way; it feels like if this isn't enough, nothing can be, and there is no second to spare to change anything.

John's head tips back again and he hisses, then breathes in heavy, long sighs – and suddenly his eyes snap open and he looks Sherlock so squarely in the eye it's like a physical slap in the face, and Sherlock holds the look as well as he can with his hips snapping forward on their own account, guided by John's hands and the perfect, frustrating counter-rhythm of John against him.

John's mouth falls open and it's all Sherlock can take; he has to taste it again, that smoke mixing with the wet taste of John, and he bites down sharply on John's lips, who moans so deeply that it steals all of Sherlock's breath away, as though John is stealing the air from his mouth. And maybe he is, and it would be good, it would be perfect –

“Ahh,” John half-sobs, grinding against Sherlock with the point of his hip perfectly angled to give Sherlock all of the friction he needs, and he does it again, “ _ahh_ ,” such sounds of nothing, of everything, and Sherlock bites at him again, tastes old blood and new and that's enough – that's enough to –

He groans into John's mouth, almost can't believe it as he comes against the grind of John's hips, anchored by the bite of the ten points of John's fingers on his arse, and John gasps against him as he catches on, rides against Sherlock's shivers, working himself against Sherlock's thigh.

“ _Ngh_ ,” John manages, before slamming his head back against the wall again with a satisfying _thwack_ and his fingers tighten even more as he shudders through his orgasm against Sherlock's thigh, face beautifully twisted, eyes unfocused but open.

Their breath mingles in the long, treacly-thick seconds that follow, that wrap themselves around them. John smells of smoke and John and Sherlock can't help himself, he leans in again to taste it once more, to see if it's changed in the seconds that he hasn't had it on his tongue. John's hands uncurl from his arse, fall to his sides against the wall. John kisses back, weakly, without the sting of teeth, just a slow move of lips.

Sherlock pulls back, and only then realises that maybe the yes should have been said, somewhere in there, but John's face falls against his chest, warm, and that can't be wrong.

Except his trousers are now sticky and growing cold, and they can't stay like this forever, time won't humour them like this much longer, and he's the one pinning John to the wall, so he unsticks himself.

John leans heavily back against the wall, as though needing the support, and looks up with him with wide eyes, that Sherlock can't read, not in the dim light of their living room.

He would say something – he supposes that's what he should do, and it's also something that he surprisingly wants to do – but his voice is lost. He settles for trailing his fingers over John's cheek, over the dirt, the sweat, everything he tasted just now.

And then, unable to do anything else, he turns away and sits down heavily in the sofa, brain re-booting slowly, images starting to flash again, impressions needing to be catalogued.

John stands for a long moment; Sherlock chances a look at him, and he looks almost resigned. He turns away, lingers for another moment in the doorway, then with unsteady, lazy feet, starts to climb the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock closes his eyes.


End file.
